


Substitute Timelines

by jesuisordure



Series: Strange Tales of the Seireitei : Soul Stories [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, Fluff, Multi, No Fullbringer Arc, Out of Character, Personification of Death, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, Whump, dark timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisordure/pseuds/jesuisordure
Summary: | 12/02 NOT DEAD - JUST RESTING |What if Ichigo didn't get stabbed with the Magic Reiatsu Sword of Destiny?What if Ichigo chose a different path?What if a different path chose Ichigo?Different ways Ichigo's 17-month hiatus after using the final Getsuga might have gone.  Each chapter is a separate timeline - please check intro "Notes" for individual chapter TWs. There is somewhat OOC behaviour because AU and all that. /'s are very mild.





	1. The One Where Ichigo Says Thanks But No Thanks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really love woken-up, smelled the coffee — _does-not-want_ — disillusioned Ichigo and morally ambiguous Urahara.

When — after feeling nothing for nearly two years — Ichigo got a squirmy feeling in his gut out of nowhere, he knew something was wrong. He might not be able to sense for shit, but his instincts were still functioning perfectly well, _arigato_ very much. Grabbing his phone, he called the most likely candidate for causing random squirmy feelings.

A familiarly cheerful voice answered the call.

_“Moshi moshi, Kurosaki-san! How nice to hear from you. I’ve been —“_

“Cut the crap, Kisuke. I know you’re up to something and the answer is ‘no’.”

_“I’m sure I have no idea what —“_

The shopkeeper didn’t miss a beat, but Ichigo was in absolutely no mood to entertain his games of half-truths and “need-to-know” explanations.  


_-Explanations. Don’t make me laugh.-_

“No, Geta-Boshi. _No._ Whatever you’re planning, whatever schemes you have tucked up your sleeves, I don’t want to hear it. _**NO.**_”

_“Maa, Ichigo, so cold, you know I —”_

“I’m hanging up now.”

_“Youcangetyourpowerback — today. In an hour.”_

The words were rushed, tumbling over each other so that he had no choice but to hear them. Ichigo drew in a long, shaky breath, closing his eyes and letting his mind still. He had made this decision months ago, back when he had resigned himself to never feeling… like _that_ again; to never seeing his friends again; to never hearing his soul again. But now…

He opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a small notebook stashed away under a chaotic mess of papers and pens. Written across a 2-page spread, in thick black marker with multiple underlinings and decidedly furious penmanship, were the words:

**REMEMBER:**  
_When Geta-Boshi/Uppity Ghosts/Fairy Godmother/Whoever comes waving the promise of  
~~* ReStOreD PoWeR *~~ under your nose:-_

Thereafter followed a list, several pages long, of reasons to leave his brief stint as a Shinigami in the past, some of them even paired with reasons to accept, but ultimately the cons outweighed the pros. He had to choose whether to lose big once, or lose small — what was sure to be many, many times over. Rip the band-aid or keep picking the scab?

_“Kurosaki-san, are you still there?”_

There was an edge of genuine concern in the shopkeeper’s voice. Perhaps he was beginning to realise that this was more than a mere temper tantrum on his former student’s part. Perhaps he was realising that Ichigo’s days of being blithely manipulated and moved around like a particularly destructive pawn were in the past. He hadn’t been paying attention, and in his laxity, the child had become a man — a man with a mind of his own and — worse — a solid knowledge of himself. A dangerous combination; a combination that made someone difficult to exploit.

_-Good.-_

“I’m sorry, Kisuke. I appreciate all the work you’ve done, but the answer is still no. Please tell whoever is there with you the same. My days of playing saviour to a bunch of f—… supernatural beings that were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves before I came along, are over. If they want me, they’ll just have to wait the roughly 70 years it’s going to take for me to show up in their backyard naturally. Barely a blink of a Shinigami eye. —— Oh, and Kisuke? Kindly remind them that if I were to say, die unexpectedly young from mysterious causes, I’m going to be well and truly **pissed** and I’ll know who to take it out on.” 

He made sure to infuse the last statement with as much of a shark-like grin as possible. Yes, it was a threat, and he wanted them to know it. Remind them who they were dealing with.

There was a pause — there was actually a pause. When Kisuke finally spoke, his voice was flat and emotionless, betraying nothing — which Ichigo knew betrayed _everything_. 

_“I see. — Will I be seeing you again soon, Ichigo-kun?”_

The familiar address did not escape Ichigo’s attention. Urahara was still trying to influence him, control the situation. He shook his head. He couldn’t even work up the... disappointment to be genuinely angry — the man didn’t know any other way to be.

“I don’t know, _Urahara-san_. Do you still want to play with your favourite toy now that it’s broken?” 

Ichigo’s words dripped with an artificial sweetness he had learned from the very man on the other side of the conversation.

Kisuke made a noise Ichigo could swear was a choke of hurt dismay, and it said a lot that he felt neither guilt nor petty satisfaction at having evoked that response in his normally guarded former-mentor. He felt nothing, which perhaps wasn’t the best either, but he could build his way up from there. Start fresh. He had always had a talent for levelling things to the ground.

Urahara’s reply sounded almost forlorn. Defeated.

_“I understand Kurosaki-san. And I apologise... I hope I_ will _see you. And I will make sure your message is perfectly understood by all relevant parties.”_

“Thank you, Kisuke. Goodbye.”

He ended the call before anything more could be said and his finger hovered over the “**Block Number**” function. In the end, he let it be — let the shopkeeper prove himself. For all his deception and manipulation, he was still the person who had been the most honest with Ichigo - and wasn’t that a tragedy?

Ichigo put his notebook of reminders back where it belonged and looked around his room. He felt… free. He could breathe again, the invisible bands around his throat and chest suddenly loosened, and when his stomach complained it was because he was actually hungry, not on the verge of another panic attack. He very nearly had a panic attack because he _wasn’t_ having a panic attack, the lack of tension in his body pinging his survival instincts to DO SOMETHING.

So he did.

Ichigo went downstairs to find Yuzu and tell her he was hungry. The way her face lit up made it all worth it. 

There was more than one way to protect his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know — in what universe would Ichigo _ever_ willingly give up his Zanpakutō spirits?? But they were never really gone, and this Ichigo is more "Huh, I see." than "Woe is me." I figure he'll be able to hear them by himself soon enough _because_ of this attitude.


	2. The One Where Ichigo Disappears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoot the hostage.  


The thing with depression is it makes you want to disappear.  
Makes you want to just crawl up inside yourself until you are too small for the world to have any effect on you, or for you to have any effect on it.

Disappear.

The thing with having underground connections is that it makes it easy for you to hide.  
The world is indeed a stage, with a backstage three times as large, and certain people are very good at making things go away; skilled at putting them someplace no one will ever find them, leaving no evidence they were ever there to begin with.

Hidden.

The thing with having no reiatsu is that it makes you impossible to track and locate.  
And when you’re down to the last third of you soul and nobody’s paid much attention to your whereabouts in many months...

It doesn’t take much to become the proverbial needle — dropped in a haystack, between floorboards, slipped down the drain. Gone. 

Invisible. 

Untouchable.

_Safe._

The local _oyabun_ remembers Ichigo and is delighted to have him turn a few favours of a dubious-but-just-shy-of-criminal nature in exchange for documents and cash. Ichigo might not have his Shinigami powers anymore, but he never needed them in the past, and slipping into the role of persuader/enforcer is not as difficult as he thought it would be  
(_the war must have damaged him worse than he realised_).  
Ichigo concentrates on the quickly-accumulating stacks of money and the freedom they promise, each hit he takes in the process a reminder of the path that brought him to this point.

(Ironically enough, the physical exercise combined with the distraction it offers helps speed along his recovery, both mentally and physically. The more he heals, the more he heals — it is the Kurosaki way: The Path of Obstinacy.)

On the 7th anniversary of his mother’s death, six months after losing his powers and shortly before his 17th birthday, Ichigo Kurosaki climbs out of the window of his childhood bedroom for the last time.

And disappears.

Leaving his sisters is the hardest part, and he knows he will never be able to make up for the hurt his actions cause, no matter how much he explains his reasons  
(_is it crueler to be the brother who disappears into the night but survives, or the brother who sacrifices himself in a war not his own and is definitively lost forever?_)  
He promises to remain in contact — there are many ways in which technology has made a vanishing act that much easier to endure, nevermind accomplish.

To be more accurate, leaving the extended circle of people he considers his own — those under his protection — is the hardest part, Karin and Yuzu simply top that list. But Ichigo is no longer a protector, and those he used to protect now protect themselves. This certainly makes his decision simpler.

And so Ichigo disappears.

Perhaps he will come back someday in the future, when Soul Society has either pulled themselves together  
(_he can’t even **think** that with a straight face — the dead are as lost and confused as the living_)  
or been destroyed by some enemy they should have seen coming a mile away — he doesn’t much care which at this point, as long as the responsibility of riding to their rescue doesn’t fall on his shoulders; as long as his saviour complex doesn’t put his family in danger. 

And they will not find him — that much he is certain of. An especially guilt-laden and emotionally manipulative  
(_he learned from the best, after all_)  
letter of instructions left for Kisuke should hinder their - laughably pathetic - attempts at navigating the Human World  
(_assuming they bother, now that he’s outlived his usefulness to them_).  
Leverage requires a point of resistance, and if they cannot find him, they cannot stick their bony Shinigami fingers into the cracks where his weaknesses shine through. All it takes to protect your Achilles’ Heel is a good pair of safety boots.

So Ichigo disappears.

The first few years he changes location often, simply enjoying the freedom of not being anyone important, thanking himself silently for paying attention in English class; and wherever words fail to support him, there are always his fists. Every city has an underground fighting scene, so money is never a problem. Karin and Yuzu are surprisingly understanding of his decision  
(_the relief he feels causes an unexpected surge in his reiatsu and then it’s time to change cities again — there is no better reason for a change of scenery_)  
and become experts at evading all manner of surveillance when it comes to contacting their big brother clandestinely  
(_Yuzu especially enjoys pretending she’s in a real life spy movie_). 

They are the only ones with whom he has any contact, and it will remain so. He can’t trust anyone else — not his idiot father who flaps his lips just to hear the sound they make, and not his mentor — whom he adores, but would sell him to Satan for one corn chip***** if the payoff was attractive enough. Ichigo can respect that; he’s known this about Urahara since the beginning, but he also knows he’s worth more than one corn chip. Besides, trying to find Ichigo — even though he gave explicit instructions not to bother — will keep the meddlesome scientist out of bigger trouble. Ichigo even leaves meaningless clues in random places sometimes. He hopes it makes his mentor happy.

His friends eventually calm down over his sudden disappearance and continue on with their lives; he is glad. Let them forget. 

Grimmjow does not — Ichigo owes him a rematch and Grimmjow is nothing if not focused when it comes to matters of violence and bodily harm and the causing thereof. It is the surprise of a lifetime when Ichigo steps into the ring one balmy August evening to find himself facing none but the Big Blue Bastard himself. He very nearly rushes across the space separating them to give the overgrown pussycat a huge hug, but settles on a grin wild enough to match his opponent’s, and they spend the next forty three minutes and eighteen seconds trying to take each other apart. The match is a draw.

It is with regret, and something like grief, that Ichigo asks Grimmjow to stay away from him — his appearance is far too distinctive  
(_not to mention the gargantas_)  
and will lead back to Ichigo sooner rather than later. However, he agrees to one official fight a year, a farewell match before his next relocation. Perhaps as time goes by...

Soul Society finally shows up in Karakura to drag him back into their mess, and lose their collective undead minds when they learn their “saviour” has done a runner  
(_he is giddy with delight when Yuzu delivers the news, her cackling edged with spite Ichigo didn’t know she had in her. She’s still angry with them. She will _ never_ forgive them. **Never**._)  
He crushes his opponents in the ring that night.

The next morning he leaves for somewhere warm, where the biggest threat to his safety is sunburn and the occasional scorpion in the bed.

Ichigo disappears.

And _Ichigo_ returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****[Troubled Birds](https://www.mincingmockingbird.com/collections/troubled-bird/products/corn-chip-postcards-set-of-12-troubled-birds) (Matt Adrian's [fine art birds series](https://www.mincingmockingbird.com/collections/giclees/Matt-Adrian) is pure poetry.)
> 
> Eat the banana.


	3. The One Where Ishida Is Very Protective Of One [1] Ex-Substitute Shinigami

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Continuing Adventures of KuroShida" practically writes itself. It's so deliciously tropey, I just want more!

The last thing Ichigo expected when he used the final Getsuga and was reduced to “factory model human” status, was that Uryū — Uryū! Small, angry, fashion-conscious Quincy archer Uryū — would become his, well, sidekick, for want of a better word (but don’t tell him that). When he confronted his — apparently third? — cousin (nobody i.e. Isshin tells him _anything_ for fuck’s sakes!) on this unexpected development in their relationship, Uryū simply frowned at him like he was the village idiot (nothing too unusual there), explaining that, seeing as Ichigo was technically no longer a Shinigami, they were no longer sworn mortal enemies. Ichigo rebutted with the fact that he had never considered Uryū his “sworn mortal enemy” a day in his life — a pain in his ass, yes; every SINGLE day of his life —, but the young Quincy pretended not to have heard him. Typical. Whatever. (Tiny jerk.)

Not that his cousin suddenly transformed from an abrasive know-it-all into a fluffy bunny made of glitter and rainbows straight out of a joint art project by ‘Hime and the Midget. Heaven forfend and perish the thought! He was as condescendingly smug and unwaveringly blunt as ever, and they sniped at each other with no less frequency than before, but the jibes and taunts and sarcasm that flew between them didn’t hold much heat anymore. They yelled and hissed at each other out of habit, two children raised by equally ineffectual fathers, equally lacking in communication skills and ability to show parental affection.

But they were friends, the Quincy and the not-Shinigami, even if it didn’t look like it from the outside, and their friendship was an oddly beautiful thing constructed out of unwavering support and no-holds-barred, tell it like it is, Opinions™ — all sharp edges and pointy corners surrounding a mutual determination to protect the other. Even when they were at each others’ throats they were, in actuality, expressing their fear that the other would come to harm; that they would lose them as well. 

The unlikely Bad Cop-Bad-Cop buddy comedy duo were making their way home from school many months after Ichigo’s soul sacrifice when he was unceremoniously pushed up against a wall, Uryū stepping in front of him, his bow drawn and glowing brightly enough to match the blistering fury radiating off him, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt feathers and electrical discharge.

There was only one thing guaranteed to get his back up that quickly — 

“What do you want, _Shinigami_?” Uryū spat the word out as if it was the bitterest of poisons. 

Ichigo groaned internally. He hated not being able to see or hear what was going on; hated being at such a disadvantage, being so _useless_.

“Who is it, Uryū?”

There was a pause before he received an answer, his loyal bodyguard (Ichigo sniggered to himself) listening to whichever unlucky Gotei member had drawn the short straw to confront them.

“A Shinigami.”

Ichigo wanted to smack his cousin on the head — or at least poke him in his bony ribs — but decided presenting a united front was probably a more advisable strategy for the moment. Solo acts tend to get picked-off first, so he did his very best to hide the exasperation Uryū was so good at evoking in him.

“Yes, I know that — which one?”

“Kuchiki.”

The urge to inflict bodily harm skyrocketed. “Uuuughhhhh _Uryū_! **Which one?**”

“The tiny woman.”

Ichigo guessed he should have suspected; still, after hearing nothing for so long, could he really be blamed for thinking he had been forgotten now that he had served his purpose?

“Huh. Rukia…... Took you long enough.” (His voice didn’t even waver all that much.) “Well if you’re here now it must mean there’s some sort of disaster looming on the horizon.” Ichigo tried to keep the acerbic acrimony coating his tongue from bleeding out with his words, but didn’t quite manage it. He also couldn’t quite manage to feel sorry for it either.

Another pause as words were exchanged between the “mortal enemies”.

Uryū made his trademark huff of annoyance (Ichigo had begun cataloguing them, along with the frowns, the flounces and - his personal favourite - the finger-glasses pushes) and cooly relayed Rukia’s response to Ichigo from over his shoulder, never once taking his eyes off the point on which his bow was trained. 

“I have neither the time not the inclination to relay all her pathetic excuses. She’s here to reawaken your powers.”

“Oh? And how does she plan on doing that, when even Urahara hasn’t come up with a method yet? I doubt Kurotsuchi has been spending all these months tirelessly working on a solution out of the goodness of his heart.” Ichigo knew this to be true — Kurotsuchi didn’t possess an ounce of goodness, let alone a heart to store it in.

“She has a Zanpakutō that’s been infused with reiatsu from nearly all the Gotei captains and many of the lieutenants. Apparently if she runs you through with it it will kickstart your powers just like the first time.”

Ichigo considered this turn of events. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t given considerable thought to all the ways he might come back into his power and what each would mean for him; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t given considerable thought to what it would mean if he never got them back at _all_. He was initially convinced that that would signal the end of his life as he knew it, but the longer he thought about, the more he started to question whether he **could** lose his powers. They were genetic — he was born with them, part of his soul — he did not randomly acquire them along the way; pick them out of the bargain bin at Urahara Shōten. The day he figured this out was the day he heard the faintest of whisperings in his soul again; a cackle hidden behind many doors, but coming closer; every day, closer. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Uryū.

That said...

“Hmm, I appreciate the effort, but I think I’ll pass. I’d hate to spend the rest of my no doubt brief, if exceptionally eventful, life — and afterlife, I’m sure there’ll be no rest for me there either — owing Soul Society for something that was their responsibility in the first place.” 

He was glad he couldn’t see Rukia. He didn’t especially want to hurt her - she was just unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when Ichigo was in no disposition to be receptive to Soul Society's unending stream of bullshit.

When Uryū spoke he managed to sound both bored and irritated beyond reason. “She’s babbling. Kurosaki, are you willing to discuss this at all?”

Ichigo stepped around his cousin to give him the most dead-eyed stare he could muster, no words necessary in relaying his meaning.

Uryū’s tight-lipped smirk was there and gone; Ichigo imagined he was itching to push his glasses up his nose (Variation #2: _Face-Punchingly Annoying Smug Bastard_), but his trigger finger was otherwise occupied. 

“He can’t be reasoned with once his mind’s made up, as you should well know. You may go now, Shinigami. — _Leave that here._”

Ichigo imagined Rukia’s sputtering outrage filling the silence that followed, but it was a waste of time — Uryū was carved from finely-polished glass and that sort of thing slid right off him. He still had his bow trained on her and he was clearly not in the mood to negotiate. When the bow tracked, Ichigo assumed Rukia had admitted defeat, laying the miracle sword at Uryū’s feet. She probably hoped he would come around if the object of temptation was so close at hand (wishes and horses and birds on the wrist -- if only she knew). Uryū kept a steady draw until Rukia presumably left through a Senkaimon.

“My hero.” Ichigo tried very hard not to laugh and failed spectacularly. 

“Don’t think I won’t shoot you right in the eye, Kurosaki.” 

“Oh hush. You love beating up stray Shinigami for me. Now do you want to come back to my place — I’ll let you sew Quincy crosses into my underwear as thanks.”

Uryū gave a haughty flip of his head, and started walking.

Ichigo grinned — Smile #1: _I Love You - My Repressed Ass Just Doesn’t Know How To Say It_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter the fun comes crashing to a halt. *cracks knuckles* My time to shine.


	4. The One Where Everything Is Awful and Everything Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING:** slow death, mild suicidal ideation, allusion to suicide, PTSD, and everything else you can imagine someone who has survived a war at the grand old age of 16 can go through.  

> 
> [I try to write nice things, happy things, I really do...]

The loneliness of those first few months isn’t even the worst of it — it is the emptiness. The yawning… _chasm_ inside him in the place where his soul used to be.

He develops a new understanding of Isshin’s post-Masaki coping mechanisms (_should he be grateful of this insight into his father’s particular parenting style, now that it is too late to matter?_) — anything to dull the pain; anything to fill the hole, cover it to stop from bleeding out, even if it is a ratty old piece of carpet. Even if it has to be taped back into place every day. Anything for five minutes of not being _aware_.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: fight. In back alleys and under bridges, in holes deep under the city surrounded by the sound of men shouting, in dive bars where the walls are as sticky as the floor. Blood, chaos, pain. He understands these things — they are foxhole friends; they feel like home. And with the bars comes alcohol — free alcohol, in dingy holes that view the minimum drinking age as more of a general suggestion than a law to be enforced with any amount of enthusiasm (_in any case, the cheap sake is safer to drink than the water_).

Split knuckles feel _good_. Black-out drunk feels _good_. The two together are **sublime**. A distraction from, a redirection of, a blessed alternative to feelings. It is supremely difficult to focus on existential pain when even your hair hurts (_even that problem disappears if you throw enough alcohol at it_). Precious oblivion... Until you do something that brings it all screaming back in glorious 3-D high def. Something unforgivable.

He sets aside this particular not-coping mechanism when he is jerked out of deep (and blissful) unconsciousness following a spectacular solo binge, by Yuzu gently placing a blanket over his shivering body. He has her up against the wall by the throat before he is even fully conscious of his surroundings. That moment is a hot brand of shame, seared into his mind: her eyes filled with fear and — incredibly — understanding, even as she chokes for air under her _nii-san’s_ squeezing fingers. He recoils in horror, throwing her bodily away from himself before bolting upstairs. He refuses to come out of his room for days, screaming into the mattress and clawing holes into his skin as a parade of panic attacks merge into one long, drawn-out, sweaty, twitchy, waking nightmare. After that he keeps the door bolted when he is alone.

_(All of that is over now. Soon everything will be over. No more blood, no more chaos, no more pain. But will he ever truly rest easy without a sword in one hand and another man’s life in the other?)_

He is not legal. He cannot drink, or drive, or vote — but he has swung a sword, and fought in a war, and seen more blood (_a lot of it his own_) than the average surgeon. He has never been kissed, but he has killed — actual sentient beings no different from himself except for which side of the battlefield they stood on. He is deeply familiar with the intimacy of a blade entering his body; could explain in detail the piercing thrust, the sucking withdrawal; the sensation of sharp steel passing through his flesh as if he were made of paper, not blood and meat and severed nerves. And yet he has never been touched with loving strokes, felt fingers gently parting his hair, had another’s body inside his without intent to kill.

He is not even seventeen and he feels _old_. Old inside, his heart scarred by more (_so much more_) than typical teenage heartbreak. How could he ever be expected to care about trivial things again, relate to his peers that didn’t share the experience with him, after what he has seen — after what he has _**done**_?

Therapy is an option — he is not afraid, or embarrassed — but what’s the point? His body is as broken as his mind, held together by trauma and a stubborn streak wider than the Hueco Mundo sky — and the latter is stretched very, very thin, threatening to crack and let the Void in (_or out?_)

He suspects he died two years ago — a combination of his first encounter with Byakuya when he cut his _Saketsu_, and Kisuke finishing him off during his Hollowfication. Can a body — let alone a technically dead one — survive with only a sliver of a soul? (_It’s something of an anomaly that he’s lasted this long, although it’s a very him thing to do, really: defying Death to get the job done._)

The results seem to speak for themselves though — his body is not holding up, despite his flawless history of going about things in exactly the opposite way he is meant to. His body knows things aren’t right; he is not right. His outsides have always matched his insides, as his actions have matched his words (_and right now his insides are saying they politely quit_).

It would be hard to explain, how it feels like the walls are crumbling inside, how his structural integrity is failing. It’s getting more and more difficult to eat without pain. His gums bleed, his stomach cramps (_everything cramps_), he throws up blood and pieces of a shell that is collapsing in on itself. His kidneys ache and burn constantly; his urine is not a healthy colour (to say nothing of his skin). And he should know, son of a doctor and future doctor-to-be (_though it’s starting to look like he might have to abandon that dream_). Every so often his heart skips a beat, or two, or three, and he thinks —

_“Is this it? Is this my glorious end?... Grimmjow’s gonna dig up my corpse and kill me all over again — that’s if Kenpachi doesn’t beat him to it.”_

The laughter hurts as things tear inside him and he tastes blood, which only makes him laugh harder — hysteria barely kept at bay, though his eyes stream to think of how he won’t see his 20th birthday, let alone his twentieth century.

He doesn’t say anything because there is nothing that can be done, not now — it is already far too late. (_He thinks it was always far too late._) Rather than looking into the tearful eyes of his sisters and hating Isshin for “dealing” with this the same way he deals with everything — by ignoring it — he would much rather spend his remaining days going about his life and savouring what precious little is left. At least until a more definitive solution is required.

He wonders, though, if there will be enough left of his battered soul to _Konsō_. Would he even _survive_ a soul burial with only a third (_give or take; arguing about the details at this stage would be pointless_) of his soul (_and that as delicate as a sakura blossom_) remaining? He imagines he will not be transforming into a beautiful butterfly and flitting off to Soul Society; that his soul will simply dissolve into the soft, shimmering powder shed by their wings, and be dispersed by a passing breeze. After all is said and done there could be nothing waiting for him, not even the afterlife he fought so hard to preserve; sacrificed himself for. Ironic. Poetic. A Tragedy starring Kurosaki Ichigo, Substitute Shinigami.

He’s been cold for weeks. No matter what he does he can’t warm up. He knows he is nearly out of time; his body knows this too. It is sheer willpower that drives him now — he has never been very good at staying down, even now that he is barely skin and bones (_and even that weighing him down like Yamamoto’s reiatsu_). Nobody has said anything, not directly. Nobody is around to see. He is both grateful, and angry to be alone in this. Yuzu encourages him to eat and looks at him with heartbreaking concern; looks at Isshin with despair, silently pleading with him _to do something_. Karin hides, and hides behind her anger; hides behind her fists like her big brother. He tells her he loves her every chance he gets.

(_It won’t be difficult — he is halfway dead already. More than halfway._)

The walk to Urahara’s takes hours. He has to pause every few metres to gather his remaining strength, catch his breath, wait for his heart to reluctantly pump the bare minimum of blood through his shredded veins to keep him upright long enough to reach the _shōten_; conscious and coherent enough to absolve Kisuke of his crimes — real and imagined. To tell him. To tell him...

He is glad he waited ‘til now — Kisuke is distressed by his appearance and the way his words play leapfrog with each other, though it is hard to tell his mentor’s (_could have been more, should have been more than just a deathbed regret_) expression since his eyes stopped doing their job properly. He wanted to avoid this; he didn’t want to push his pain on those he loves. Wanted to protect them to the end.

He doesn’t have to ask to be carried home. It is nice. Kisuke’s arms. Kisuke. Smelling of blood and steel and chemicals. It is comforting. This is also home. Home is where the heart is. Home. He is home now. They are arguing downstairs but he can’t get up to ask them to stop, so he recalls the feeling of hard muscle shielding him like he is a precious thing, sweet warmth sinking into all the places he aches, and a heart thundering so hard he is still vibrating from being held so closely up against it. For a brief moment, Kisuke’s heart was his. It is good.

It is a beautiful night, and the water has laid out a bed of stars for him to sleep in.

They find his body in the river, close to where the path of his destruction began; pretty as a painting — “Ophelia With Flaming Crown”, by Schiele.

A small, frail boy with distinctive persimmon-coloured hair and seemingly every one of his bones visible through rice-paper skin, appears in the outer Rukongai. He looks around him with gold eyes set in pools of black. He is _hungry_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this timeline, the Final Getsuga is FINAL: As opposed to _reiatsu_ exhaustion only, Ichigo also suffers _reiryoku_ exhaustion which, seeing as it is an individual’s life force, is a pretty dire situation. 
> 
> **Butterfly:** Souls who receive _Konsō_ are depicted as transforming into black butterflies. (The butterfly is an ancient symbol of the soul freed from the mortal body; called _psyche_ in Greek.)  
**Ophelia:** Doomed sister of Laertes who loses her mind after the murder of her father and rejection by the Prince, and — abandoned and alone — commits suicide by drowning herself in the river, in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”. I thought giving Ichigo a bouquet of flowers would be A Bit Much (but boy was I tempted). The [Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood](https://www.projectarm.com/ophelia-millais-preraphaelites/) were obsessed with depicting Ophelia, and their muses were largely redheads. [Millais’](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophelia_\(painting\)) model, Elizabeth Siddal, committed suicide as a result of (additional) psychological damage incurred by posing for the painting. A tragedy wrapped in a tragedy: the Ancient Greeks are gagging.  
**Saketsu:** Chain of Fate that ties the soul to the body. After death, encroachment begins, leading to Hollowfication if the Soul does not cross over to Soul Society. Shinigami do not have a visible chain, but the spot is an important pressure point.  
**Sakura:** Cherry blossoms are a very important symbol of the transience of life — and the renewal thereof — which is why there are annual _Hanami_ (“watching blossoms”) festivals. In the Samurai tradition, the petals also symbolise noble souls who have fearlessly sacrificed themselves and fallen in battle while protecting the Emperor (etc.).  
[**Schiele, Egon**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egon_Schiele): Austrian Expressionist painter who often depicted the human body in a [grotesque](https://arcadia.education/arcadia/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/schiele_original.jpg) manner — harsh lines, exaggerated features, sunken skin and visible skeletal details. His self-portraits are wonderfully disturbing. I love him. (Warning: The majority of his work is NSFW) Interestingly, Schiele was the [protégé of Klimt](https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2018/nov/04/klimt-schiele-royal-academy-review-laura-cumming) (“The Kiss”, anyone?) best known for the lush, gilded beauty (though there is grotesque in there) of his work. They died within a few months of each other, at 28 and 55. It’s all just so... tragic ::swoons::


	5. The One Where Ichigo Is Protected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I bury Ichigo in fluff, because he deserves it.

Ichigo wasn’t accustomed to doing nothing. He wasn’t accustomed to being useless, and it was driving him not-so-slowly insane. 

He considered working in the clinic with Isshin, but while that would taken care of the “useless” part of the equation, it would only compound the “insane” factor. By a lot. He certainly wasn’t going anywhere near Urahara and his kingdom of schemes, similarly for the health and wellbeing of his fragile sanity. He was afraid of what interacting with the public might trigger — all it would take would be a face, a voice, a pair of glasses that looked familiar — so getting a job was also out.

With all avenues of productivity seemingly blocked off to him, Ichigo was left to settle on what he knew best — hanging with the Dead.

He spent days at Masaki’s grave — talking about everything and nothing, sitting in silent thought and no-thought, crying to a mother who could no longer comfort him, railing against the burden she had placed on his young shoulders and begging forgiveness for how he had failed yet again, despite giving _everything_.

When he had nothing left inside but raw emptiness, there was finally room for peace, and with peace came purpose: He might not be able to see them anymore, or save them from being consumed by Hollows, but he could surely help the wandering souls of Karakura in other ways.

Ichigo’s newest protection detail found him at the cemetery, wandering the rows until he got the urge to stop — and then he would get on his knees and clean. He did this day after day, washing graves, burning incense, weeding, leaving small offerings and talking to the spirits — whether they were there or not, it didn’t matter (on some level this was as much about preventing his deterioration into a living Hollow as it was about keeping the dead company). As he became more invested in his duties, Ichigo began learning calligraphy so that he could write out his own prayers. They weren’t perfect (he could only imagine the sour face Byakuya would make in response to his shaky brushstrokes), but they were personal — another weapon in his arsenal. He didn’t know if his efforts accomplished anything, but at the very least he might be helping a few pained souls to pass on instead of Hollowfying.

He always made note of the dates on the graves he cleaned, of any anniversaries coming up. On those days he would pay special attention to the memory of the departed soul, bringing food from Yuzu and special prayer papers, careful not to infringe on whichever relatives might come to pay their respects; taking the place of those that did not. Families came to recognise the serious young man with unmistakably bright hair, some even referring to him as _hogo-sha_. 

He was protecting.

It didn’t take long before Ichigo noticed the beneficial effects the regular cemetery visits were having on him. He felt an immense sense of calm while tending the graves, almost as if he was entering another realm when he crossed the cemetery gates (he supposed he was, in a way). He started to bring this inner stillness home with him, and then it became a steady presence within him, not unlike the silent reassurance of Ossan, or the quiet focus of battle, where his vision narrowed and everything around him but his opponent disappeared. Except this focus was _expanded_. He felt like he could see everything, could feel the whole world — reach out and touch individual points, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was awareness, without attachment; being in, without being _of_.

He felt connected, part of something again. Part of **himself**.

It was an almost bizarre thing to realise that he was the one who felt protected now — from despair; from sinking.

Being stabbed in the back was a shock.

Seeing the dozens and dozens of spirits gathered around him was something else entirely.

A loud, deeply aggravated voice came from somewhere at the back of his soul entourage.

_“Do you mind? I think I’ve proven I’m not here to hurt him!”_

“Rukia…?”

The crowd parted, allowing the feisty midget through.

_“Do you know how long I’ve had to explain— and re-explain — myself to your self-appointed ~guard~? Days, Ichigo — **days**! Not even threatening konsō worked — they just stepped right up in front of me. I don’t know what you did to become the ~favourite~ child despite everything —” she surveyed the faces that surrounded them. “... Though honestly, why am I even surprised.”_

Ichigo meanwhile was experiencing a great many emotions all at once — shock, relief, elation, all came flooding into the still place at his centre, and it took him a few moments to find his balance. And then he laughed — a laugh of pure joy and mirth; the laugh of a buddha. Rukia nearly choked on her own tongue at the sight and sound of the Prince of Scowls unabashedly _laughing_ — which only caused further peals of delight to bubble up from Ichigo’s soul.

Spirits are all grandmas at heart, which is to say, a mixture of proud and lonely. Naturally they each insisted on showing Ichigo their individual graves that he had been tending to so faithfully, thanking him for his kindness. After which Ichigo was called on to perform his first duty as a newly remade Shinigami: _konsō_ for the crowd of souls who considered it an honour to be sent on to the afterlife by someone who cared enough not to forget them, while Rukia watched with a wry smile at the sight of the Kurosaki Effect in action once again.

Ichigo expected that the loss of his spirit entourage would result in the loss of peace that had enveloped him in recent months — he dreaded the possibility, dreaded how alone he would feel without it — but the feeling remained, firmly anchored within, like a lotus. He thought he might honestly be happier about that than the return of his powers, but he was curious what effect it would have on his relationship with his Zanpakuto spirits. Ossan already existed in an unflappable zen state, but Shiro… a chilled-out Hollow was difficult — no, _impossible_ to imagine.

As it turned out, a more focused Shiro was even more dangerous than a scattered one, but the Hollow also seemed less inclined to direct his penchant for violence at Ichigo. The mild toning down of the Zanpakuto spirit’s psychotic nature could almost be mistaken for maturity (almost). Ossan seemed… cheerier; at least, his version of cheerier. Ichigo even caught him smiling. This probably had more to do with the changes to Ichigo’s inner world than anything. The skyscrapers had been replaced with temples and shrines of all kinds, bordered by lush bamboo forests, gardens and ponds, all existing underneath a perfectly blue, cloudless sky. It was calm, yet _vital_; sacred — a true reflection of the changes he had undergone.

And so it was that unstoppable object and immovable force that is Ichigo Kurosaki, became the resident Shinigami for Karakura Town. Considering he had fought in a war for them, he was of the firm opinion that Soul Society could drop the “substitute” from his designation, especially as it wasn’t an official position anyway. They (the Head Captain largely) countered with the requirement that he attend the academy, as he would probably be able to graduate in a year. He countered with “I’m going to do it anyway” and “my proper education has suffered enough”. 

It was hard to argue against the teen, especially when he was (embarrassingly) so much more efficient in his duties than the official Soul Society dispatched Shinigami. In addition, the number of plus souls lost to Hollow attacks dropped dramatically, now that the dead had an “ambassador”. If Ichigo didn’t find them on his rounds, they found him — an ever-changing group of volunteer “guides” directing the lost and confused to the trusted safety of a soul burial delivered by the young Shinigami hybrid. It was efficient, far less dangerous and traumatic for everyone concerned, and Ichigo truly enjoyed his service to the dead. Protecting, always.

Until the day the first shrine appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hogo-sha_: guardian, protector, patron


	6. The One Where Ichigo Gets A Promotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 continues to fight me [no surprise, considering the theme] — so Chapter 9 fluffiness it is!

Ichigo is sitting by the river alternately feeling deeply sorry for himself, and berating himself for enjoying it so much. The self-chastisement helps him to feel worse, which he enjoys as well. He has been lost in this feedback-loop of self-pity and disgust and petty pleasure for a while now, if the soft pink and orange tones the sky has taken on are anything to go by, and he is on the verge of making a decision on how to proceed with his evening — continue to wallow, or kick himself in the pants and go home to Yuzu’s excellent cooking, even if that comes with a large side of Isshin’s asshattery. That is until somebody sits down next to him.

He sighs internally. It’s not a presence he recognizes — even without his _reiryoku_ dialed all the way up he knows his people — which means it’s a stranger; a stranger who has chosen to sit inside his personal space bubble, in an isolated location, with near dark creeping up behind them. None of this bodes well for the foreseeable future. Maybe they’ll go away if he studiously ignores them? But of course, no such luck.

“You are a curious case, Kurosaki Ichigo. I don’t really know what to do with you.”

His name is enough to get his attention and he turns his scowl on the young woman who somehow knows his name. Her eyes are slightly crinkled up in an amused smile and Ichigo finds her simultaneously striking and unremarkable — none of her features stand out, and yet together they form a face he cannot look away from. He begins to doubt her youth as well, her eyes reminding him of the oldest captains’ — heavy with the weight of centuries’ experience, regardless of how lively they might be. But then she is dressed in something ichigo is sure is a designer label Uryu could identify immediately...

“Um…” he replies, brain-addled from being torn out of its reverie and forced to interact with another human being after months of being largely ignored by everyone he knows.

The woman laughs and it is the most wonderful, rich, full, throaty laugh... which has the added effect of making his skin crawl and internal organs try to shrink and hide behind each other. _“Unohana”_, he thinks, and breaks out in a truly majestic case of goosebumps.

She waves off his palpable concern. “Oh don’t worry, I haven’t come to collect you. Not today, at least. Your continued success in eluding me is quite amusing, you know — I find your tenacity impressive beyond measure, not to mention how amazing you’ve been for staff morale when it comes to the betting pools. You are a remarkable young man, Kurosaki Ichigo.”

Ichigo simply continues to stare at her, his annoyance traded in for a comprehensive state of confusion. “Excuse me, _who_ are you?”

That laugh again, like a whole troop of clowns dancing on his grave, on a warm, sunshiney, orange-scented day. “I am Death, my dear boy. We’ve brushed up against each other a number of times already, quite closely — I would think you’d recognise me. Though I suppose you were rather otherwise occupied on those occasions.”

“Oh.” Ichigo honestly doesn’t have it in him to be shocked by much of anything at this point in his life; besides, _logically_ it would make sense that even death gods would have a higher up — that’s how bureaucracy works, isn’t it? 

“So, um, nice to meet you. Thanks for all the free passes?”

“Remarkable. Re_markable_!” Death sighs in satisfaction, and somewhere in the outer reaches of the galaxy, a small, ambitious star gets to live another millennia. “Kurosaki Ichigo, how would you like a promotion?”

“What, like, become a _taichō_?”

Ichigo isn’t sure if it is a good thing that Death seems to find everything he says so damn funny.

“Oh, no no no no. Your Shinigami days are over.” Death notices the boy’s instantly crestfallen expression. “Not because of this whole temporary cut-off-from-your-powers business — and it is temporary, never fear — it’s that you’re capable of so much **more**.”

“Okay — ? I guess, what are my options?”

“Well, here’s the thing — you should be dead already. In fact, you _did_ die quite some time ago, but due to your unique… composition, it’s a little difficult to determine _actual, complete_ death; and there’s a system of checks and balances to be maintained, so we can’t just assume these things. I am fairly certain the next time you die will be the last — though it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve surprised us! — but even the betting odds are against you this time, and when my entire organization is betting against you… well, you can imagine.”

Ichigo can. He is undecided on whether to be insulted by their lack of faith in his ability to continue to cheat the system, or proud of his unnaturally good run.

“However — if you choose to work for me, you will be allowed to continue on as you are, with certain privileges. You may live a ‘natural’ life, die, and pass on to the afterlife of your choosing. You may choose — for all intents and purposes — immortality, while remaining in the world of the living, though immortality comes with its own drawbacks. If you prove to be as efficient and effective as I suspect you will be, there are even higher positions, outside of this reality that you know — everything dies, Kurosaki Ichigo, _everything_.”

Cool, calm and collected be damned, Ichigo stares at Death with his jaw hanging slightly agape in a very unflattering manner, giving the slowest of slow, fluttering blinks of his 17-and-a-bit years.

“Why me?”

“You are a clerical error — through no fault of your own, but clerical errors must be corrected, and the only way to correct you is to remove you from the equation. Also I believe you are uniquely suited for the position, Kurosaki Ichigo. 

You are already familiar with the supernatural and the realm of the dearly-and-otherwise departed — you yourself stand on the threshold of Life and Death; you have experience doing the hard thing, but you are not without compassion; you have motivation, determination, dedication and bravery beyond your years — hard won as it may be; and you have…” Death cocks Her head consideringly, “spunk. Besides, I’ve never been wrong in selecting a new Reaper.”

Ichigo studies the water, not in the least bit surprised that it seems frozen in time. He cranes his neck to look at the sky — yes, time has definitely stopped. Cool. 

“Do you have any questions?”

“Ummm, do I have to wear a robe like in the cartoons... and will I have to… reap kids… often, and what about my _Zanpakutō_ spirits?”

“No, you don’t have to wear a robe — you can wear whatever you like, although we tend to stick to an all-black aesthetic because it makes people feel more at ease. Your experience is on the battlefield, so you will likely be assigned to a War unit, though that doesn’t mean children are automatically excluded, I’m sorry; I know how much you love your sisters and how difficult that will be for you. And as for your _Zanpakutō_ and attending spirits — I couldn’t take those from you if I tried! If you accept my offer, your connection with them will be immediately restored along with your _reiryoku_, but even if you don’t, they will come back over time. In fact, your more aggressive side will be a wonderful liaison on less human worlds.

You can take some time to think —” 

There is no question in Ichigo’s mind; he needs his _Zanpakutō_ spirits, and he is already neck deep in the dead and their politics — what's another inch? 

“No. I’ll do it. Do I have to choose what sort of… benefits I want now, or — ?”

Death squeals in a very un-End-Of-Everything manner. “Excellent! Everyone is going to be so excited! As for the rest, there’s no rush; you’ll get a chance to try it all on for size before you commit. My domain is actually very flexible. Life, though? Soooo uptight. The Quincy come from that side — that should tell you all you need to know.”

Ichigo chokes on a snort and Death looks very pleased with Herself.

“Okay now hold still, this won’t hurt a bit.”

Death - _DEATH!_ \- leans over and places a kiss between his brows, right where the one half of his scowl meets its twin. It feels… strange. Soft, warm, but like he’s being touched somewhere it couldn’t — shouldn’t — be possible to touch. And when he opens his eyes, things are… weird. Death notices him blinking.

“You’ll get used to the overlap in dimensions. Your normal spirit vision is unaffected, but now you can see ~beyond~; past the veil, or whatever Humans like to call it. There’ll be other changes, but don’t worry you’ll be trained and set up with a mentor — we don’t believe in the sink-or-swim method of training; very inefficient. Anyway,” She motions to a spot behind his shoulders, “your friends are back.”

Ichigo whips his head around so quickly it’s a good thing he is already undead; a fracture here and there aren’t going to be a problem.

Shiro collides with him in a way that is part hug, part attack, shrieking and cackling hysterically. Death watches them wrestle, the more reserved — but no less exuberant — Quincy spirit eventually being dragged down into the mêlée, until the three are left collapsed on top of each other, giggling and sighing contentedly. She lets them bask in their combined joy for a few minutes, quietly noting to Herself that Ichigo's power has come back significantly increased to the level it was at before he over-exerted himself doing someone else's job.

“So are you ready for your first assignment? I know it’s soon, but I think you’ll enjoy it. I don’t normally do field work, but I’ll accompany you to establish your authority, as it were — that cantankerous old bastard Yamamoto isn’t going to be happy with his new overseer.”

Her grin is wicked, but Ichigo’s is pure distilled evil. Shiro whoops with glee and Ossan is radiating a whole new level of self-satisfaction as they fade back into Ichigo’s inner world.

“Just follow my lead and remember to look like you know what you’re doing.”

Appearing in the middle of a Captains’ Meeting is about as dramatic an entrance as one could hope to make. Seeing the ever-so-brief look of fear on the Sōtaichō’s face as he recognizes Death will keep Ichigo warm for many months to come.

“Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni, I would like you to meet your new administrator, Kurosaki Ichigo. I believe you are already well acquainted and I trust that this will aid in your cooperation with his instructions in future. Everybody else, I am Death, Destroyer of Worlds etcetera etcetera. You are expected to give Reaper Kurosaki your full assistance where requested, and to not interfere everywhere it _isn’t_. Reaper Kurosaki?”

“Domo, Lady Shi — ”

Looking around the table is a priceless, fucking, _gift_. Ukitake is beaming as if his favourite child has just won gold, while his partner-in-crime, Kyōraku, is giving Ichigo a deeply evaluating stare from under the brim of his sugegasa. Unohana is bathed in barely controlled bloodlust, or possibly just lust — Ichigo suspects they are one and the same for her — but whether that is directed at Death or himself, well, he doesn’t want to know. Most of the younger captains look like they have no idea what is going on, though Byakuya is pale — paler than usual — and sitting ramrod-straight, as if an extra stick has been shoved up his ass. Obviously he _does_ know what is going on. Kenpatchi is missing — no surprise there — and Ichigo mentally apologises to the poor bastard who has to break it to the Beast of the Gotei and her Captain that Ichi-kun is never coming back, at least not in the capacity of sparring partner and general chew toy.

Letting his gaze sweep the room, Ichigo bows just deep enough to be respectful, but still deep enough to hide his grin. 

“Honourable Captains of the Gotei 13," — he locks eyes with the very dishonourable... _jerkfaces_ who threw him away — "I hope we can work well together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I hope we can work well together"_ is something new colleagues might say to one another when introduced, especially in a situation where they will be working closely together. I love the idea of Ichigo using it passive aggressively.
> 
> Death is no doubt an extremely eclectic dresser, but on the day in question She is wearing something like this [Lars Andersson](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/cd/e6/30/cde6302964edd808c9cbfa780e6d801e.jpg) affair. I imagine Yohji Yamamoto and Ann Demeulemeester are also favourites.


	7. The One Where Ichigo Goes Category 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the <s>dank</s> dark timeline y'all.  


They made him a perfect weapon — a god-killer — designed to self-destruct even as it performed the role it was created for. 

_What happens to weapons when the war is over?_

And then they abandoned him.

_What happens when weapons aren’t properly decommissioned?_

But unlike a regular weapon, made from cold, inert steel that would be content to be set aside and forgotten, left to rust in a field or gather dust on a shelf, he was forged from flesh, and mind and soul, able to make his own decisions, able to stand up and find his way back to his makers. He had been created the most dangerous weapon of all: a weapon that could feel.

_What happens when the weapon is made from unstable material?_

And right now he was feeling kinda pissed.

Used. Discarded. And it was eating at his soul — what was left of it. He should probably be worried about the way it felt like he was slowly unravelling… disintegrating — ever so slightly, just a little bit around the edges if he squinted and didn’t look at it directly — but it felt so damn _good_ to feel anything at all, that he really couldn’t be all that concerned with the implications of that unwinding, untwisting, coming undone sensation in the place where he used to keep his Others. 

Then Soul Society stabbed him in the back again.

_They came with their sword and their reiatsu to revive their precious weapon._

And he **was** revived. 

And it **was** _good_. 

The surge of reiatsu ripping through him felt like someone had flipped on the lights in a factory long since abandoned, conveyor belts and gears and things that go "ding" all squeaking and grinding back into action.

And it felt _**so**_ good.

And the band was back together! They were the same old Zangetsu-Squared, except... except _not_. Because _he_ wasn’t — wasn’t the same. They were scarred, angular, disjointed in a way — which was to be expected from the reflections of his soul; a soul worn and experienced far beyond its apparent youth.

Zangetsu-Shiro was the same excessively, unnecessarily violent, deranged, murderous psycho maniac he had grown to accept and appreciate — despite having to be constantly vigilant about keeping him on a short leash — except... something was missing. He seemed to have lost something (but then, so had Ichigo); something integral, as if the small shred of humanity he possessed before was now gone (and Ichigo would rather not examine the implications of that too closely right now, thanks). Ichigo couldn’t be certain Shiro would (could?) make a distinction between friend and foe anymore, regardless of who was in the driver’s seat. Worse, he had a somewhat nauseating suspicion that he wouldn’t make that distinction either. 

And Zangetsu-Ossan. Same cool, calm, collected, vampire-wannabe with an allergy to speaking; the definition of stoic and dependable — except he seemed... empty, somehow. Not completely, but as if there was a hole inside him somewhere. A _hollow_. The way the corners of his mouth were always turned up almost imperceptibly; the way his eyes seemed narrowed and… _glinty_ behind his (significantly darker) signature glasses; the way he seemed to be laughing internally over some joke that only he was aware of and just couldn't wait to witness the resulting devastation of when the reality hit everybody else. There was a delicate ribbon of cruelty that seemed to wrap around his words — nothing flashy, no, all very tasteful and understated and Martha Stewart-like, but… sharp, like thorns hidden in the middle of a bouquet. 

In the spirits’ opinion, they felt fine, and Ichigo felt fine, and they were all together, and he should "quit whining and get back in shape" — this, in a shocking turn of events, from the Quincy half of the dynamic duo — so Ichigo stopped worrying and started adapting. He’d always been better at that anyway.

Shiro's horns were _definitely_ a new addition though - the cutest little nubbins on either side of his forehead, just below the hairline. When Ichigo dared to express as much, the Hollow went straight for his eyes, claws bared, and the next time he dropped down into his inner world, the horns had grown into massive outcroppings of razor-edged bone that arced back over his head, before curling forward again, ending in upturned tips. The upper edge had multiple secondary hooked tines branching off it, angled forward and up — clearly meant to do severe damage. Ichigo felt it smacked a little of overcompensation, but there was no denying how intimidating they were. (He had to be careful not to think too loudly about hanging seasonal decorations from them though. He was quite fond of his liver and where it currently resided; namely, inside his body.)

_They_ were different though. Him. The two spirits. The lot of them. The three fucking musketeers.

And the longer his soul companions were around, the more time he spent with them, the more he started to change as well.

No, that was a lie. They did nothing to him. They were him. All they did was hold up a mirror — two mirrors so he could see front and back — allowing him to face what was already there. To see himself as he was now; acknowledge the changes; accept them as part of himself. All Zangetsu-Squared did was create a space for him to step into and be himself — the self he had already become. 

The dreams were disturbing, but once he stopped trying to fight them and instead dove head first into the bloody melee, it got much better. Even enjoyable. They were together again; they fought — each other, Soul Society, Grimmjow, fucking Aizen, a whole group of pretentious-looking people all dressed in white whoever the fuck they were — and if he woke up with blood on his hands (slick on his tongue, caked in his hair), well, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd ever woken up to.

The spirits couldn't manifest outside yet, but it was early days. They had a lot of shit to sort out, adjustments to make, and it really shouldn't be too much of a shock that his soul was still working out the kinks and creases from being so rudely ripped away and then again so rudely flung back into place. And he was _still_ pissed about the whole affair, so it was to be expected for things to be unsettled. At least his anger didn’t cause torrential downpours in his inner world.

Which was another thing that was still the same... except for where it wasn't.

The skyscrapers were gone — well, they were still there, but mostly buried under coarse white sand that was all too familiar — and the sky was a blazing riot of sunset reds and oranges, as if it was on fire. As for the sun… it was a black sun, with a wavering, smoky corona; a hole burned through the fabric of the infernal sky. Ichigo shook his head a little at how dramatic his soul was being, but that seemed to be the overall tone of his “re-awakening”. The Zangetsus seemed happy with the renovations, so who was he to complain.

Internal upheaval or not, he had never felt so free in his power, so unfettered; it sat inside him naturally, as if it had finally taken on the form it was always meant to have. It was a joyous feeling, and he found himself laughing, often, from the sheer sense of liberation and... _possibility_ it filled him with. Like he could do anything. Take on anyone. And win. And he knew the perfect person — equally deficient in sanity and morality — to help him test his limits.

Kisuke took one look at him and lowered his fan, pale eyes glittering.

“Did you do something different with your hair, Kurosaki-kun?”

“I did!. I was hoping you could give me some styling tips, _Geta-Boshi_.” Ichigo tried to give his best sunshiney smile, but he could feel it came out closer to a feral grin.

“I think you know where the salon is.” The erstwhile assassin-turned-shopkeeper motioned towards the rear of the building with his fan.

As Ichigo walked past his mentor, he stopped to murmur a low threat in his ear. “I'm going to take more than just a little off the top today, _riyō-shi_.” He subtly turned up the swagger in response to the brief flare of reiatsu — hungry — from behind him. _-’Time to play, maniacs.’-_

Ichigo wasn’t wrong about the feeling of increased power he had — Kisuke was forced to release shikai very soon into their not-really-a-spar. The Shinigami-Hollow-Quincy trio were relentless, fighting with a focused brutality that would have made even Kenpatchi step back and stare. Kisuke’s kido was met with _ceros_ and Benihime’s traps and nets were sliced through before they had any hope of neutralising him, almost as if Ichigo could see ahead to what was coming; could feel their intent before it was even expressed. He was faster and more agile than he had ever been, his _hierro_ tougher and his regeneration faster. His reiatsu filled the massive training space, rebounding off the walls and doubling back on itself in a way that it really should not have been able to.

When Kisuke called an end to their match before someone got seriously hurt, Ichigo had no doubt that he now possessed the ability to wipe the entirety of the Five Realms clean with Aizen’s corpse, with energy left over to do something concrete about the (multiple) other thorns in his side. _\- Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.-_ Ichigo chuckled, until it grew into full blown howling laughter, racing through him like madness where he lay on the ground next to a gently panting Kisuke.

Ichigo rolled onto his side so that he could properly see the trickster's face, pale hair plastered to his scalp with sweat, a myriad of small scars standing out against flushed skin, hat long gone in a bala blast. “Kisuke — you want to go fuck up Aizen with us?”

“Aizen is in _Muken_, Kurosaki-san.”

“Okay. Well then: Kisuke, you wanna go fuck up _Muken_ with us?”

“Why, Ichi-kun, I didn't know you thought about me in that way. My heart is all a-flutter.”

Ichigo rolled smoothly to his feet, kicking Kisuke none too gently in the hip. “You coming, pervert, or do I have to take you by force?”

"Yes." Kisuke’s voice was dark, and the look he gave Ichigo was a calculated challenge. “To both.”

Ichigo picked up the loaded gauntlet Kisuke had just thrown down and put it in his metaphorical pocket for safe-keeping; they could revisit _that_ when the work was done. However he couldn’t resist throwing back a self-satisfied smirk, before turning to leave. “You’ve got a day to do whatever planning you feel is necessary, _Urahara-san_. We’re probably just going to start on one side and take the place apart, but you can tell us the most effective path to follow. I’ll come find you.” As he sauntered casually back to the hatch, he realised something that amused all three of them.

"Good to have you on the team, D'Artagnan; Milady de Winter." He bowed, and leapt up the stairs.

They laughed all the way home.

It was a beautiful day to kickstart the Apocalypse.

Ichigo arrived at the Shoten to find the deadliest person he knew waiting for him with a dangerous smile and a cold gleam in his eyes — hat and fan nowhere to be seen — looking the least... human Ichigo had ever seen him. Benihime had evidently been holding quite the grudge over their whole exile thing, not to mention the many feelings her wielder had chosen to bury rather than process over the last century-plus — the struggle for survival outweighing the need for self-reflection. Zangetsu-Squared had been whispering in the Crimson Princess’ ear as well, and what she heard, she liked; as did her wielder.

They were plotting a full-on mutiny. A coup. A hostile takeover (whatever you want to call it, Ichigo didn’t care as long as it was violent and bloody). Organized destruction — rather than merely destroying shit for the sheer fucking hell of it — had Zangetsu-Ossan’s name all over it, which was disturbingly reassuring in the strangest way. And the more they discussed it, the better it sounded; the more right it seemed. Rip the corruption right out by the roots and cut the weeds into tiny pieces so they can't regrow and maybe burn the crops and salt the earth while they were about it. Those details could be played by ear. The important thing was for everybody to have a good time! Except for Soul Society. They would definitely be feeling severely attacked.

Through all this, somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind where “A” still came before “B” and the animals on the wallpaper weren’t speaking to him, a small voice was — nervously — trying to tell Ichigo that this was all a Very Bad Idea; that he — _Kurosaki Ichigo_ — should be objecting vociferously to this whole endeavour; that something was very, very wrong in the state of Ichigo. But the voice was always quickly drowned out by the sound of Zangetsu-Shiro careening madly through his mind, accompanied by the soothing bass rumble of Ossan’s encouragement. (The voice sounded like Hanataro though. He had been kind to them. They would do their best to let him live.)

Shiro opened a _garganta_ right into the darkest heart of Muken. There had been some argument amongst the participants in this little adventure as to whether the dramatic impact of appearing outside of the prison — guns blazing, as it were — outweighed the personal pleasure of having some “alone time” with Public Enemy #1 that a more discreet entrance into the land of milk and lies afforded them. Ultimately stealth and a more intimate re-acquaintance with the mother murdering, career destroying, evil overlord and life ruiner supreme had won out — there would be more than enough opportunity for _surprise!_ and _guess who!_ afterwards.

Aizen was predictably smug when he saw Ichigo’s face. Somewhat less so when he saw who accompanied him on his unauthorized tour of the dungeons. The last remnant of “smug” he would ever feel quickly departed when the new and improved Zangetsus stepped out of Ichigo’s soulscape and the four drew lots as to who would get the first shot, and who would get the last, all the while arguing as to whether it was fair that Ichigo technically had greater odds of winning. This was settled by giving Benihime — who was utterly livid she could not manifest and harvest her pound of flesh herself — a lot, and making Zangetsu’s a combined draw. As it was, team UraHime got first blood, and team IchiZan secured the killing blow, so everyone was happy. Well, except for Big Bad in his fetish get-up.

Aizen — for once in his life — was rendered speechless by the whole process. Until they started carving him up. He had a LOT to say about that.

Despite concerns to the contrary, they were able to complete their work undisturbed, Ichigo’s ability to finally conceal his monstrous reiatsu immediately paying dividends. Once they were done exacting their revenge (once they had run out of bits to exact revenge on) Ichigo found it unexpectedly hard not to throw Kisuke down into the inch of gore they were standing in and bring what few spots on his body remained unbloodied more in line with the rest, but he was (reasonably) certain that had more to do with Shiro’s instincts than his own, regardless of the evaluating way Urahara was looking at him. He did lick a long stripe of blood off the man's face before leaving the cell though, Shiro's pleased cackle reverberating in his skull.

Going into this, Ichigo and his (in)visible cheering squad hadn’t had much more of a plan besides “Aizen: Destroy”, which was where the professional evil mastermind with centuries' worth of experience at being a professional evil mastermind, came in.

Kisuke (aided by Benihime in full deconstruction mode) had developed a criss-crossing two-point plan of attack meant to distract, divide and conquer, starting with Muken as Mayhem Central. It wouldn’t take long for Central 46 to close up tighter than a virgin on prom night, but that’s what would make it so much fun to tear wide open and feast on the soft, pink, gooey, noble centre. The former Captain of the Science and Research Division wanted the 12th for himself, but Ichigo insisted on being allowed to claim a trophy for Ishida. He did allow the man to hog the 2nd, though. They agreed that the 4th was off-limits, unless they drew first — and hopefully they would all think and rethink and rethink again before doing that — and even then, they were to be disarmed and temporarily decommissioned at most. 

Everyone else _was fair game_.

Four textbook examples of questionable judgement and even more questionable mental stability grinned at each other in eerily similar ways.

They had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Riyō-shi :** "Barber". Back in the day - c. 1100 or so - barbers were also bloodletters, and doctor-surgeon-dentists [of a sort], which is why barber poles have the red stripe [the white symbolising bandages]. This can further be traced back to Ancient Rome, where a dude walking around with a bloodstained stick was the equivalent of your local clinic. And there's the whole cutthroat barber thing. So yeah, I like the imagery as it applies to Kisuke and Benihime.
> 
>   
Yes, _everyone_ [you say “OOC”, I say “completely round the twist”].


End file.
